Burned
by TheLastofUs
Summary: Based off the Great Depression. All the empty insults that were thrown at America are getting into his head. Fat, lazy, weak, stupid- they're all right, he decides. He needs to become a better nation for his people. He must be a better country so people will sing America the Beautiful once more. Anorexic!America


"_I tell you: You're not dying._

_Everyone knows you're going to live,_

_So you might as well start trying."_

_-Regina Spektor, Firewood._

* * *

_Burned_

* * *

_Early November, 1928_

America looked down at his body in the mirror.

"_All the fat kid eats is cheeseburgers! America's obesity rates speak for themselves."_

His stomach looked thicker.

"_His country is so weak! Stupid child doesn't know how to govern his own country."_

His arms looked thinner.

"_Unemployment is through the roof! Once again the stupid, fat boy doesn't know how to be anything but lazy."_

He felt sleepier.

They were all right. All of them.

He was stupid, fat, and lazy. His top three stereotypes were true.

He was the United States of America. He was supposed to be the hero. He tried to give his citizens independence and rights. Every man is created equal. Or at least they were supposed to be. This only started racism and sexism. Now if the same race were to tease each other, it was perfectly fine. But if the races mixed—if the sexes mixed when they would bully each other— _Suddenly_ this was all so different.

They were right. All of them.

What kind of country has he been running? Was he wrong to seek independence? Would he better off as a colony? It was then he decided he'd do something.

_Weak. _

He would not be a weak country—one that matched even Italy at the moment. He would bring back the pride his country once held. He would be America the Beautiful again. The Home of the Brave and the Land of the Free. He would make everyone glance at Lady Liberty and say: "Look at that. I'm so glad I'm American." Yes. He would be strong like England. Like Russia. Germany. Any other country was stronger than him: the weak nation of the United States of America.

_Lazy._

He would not be a lazy person as well as a country. He already went to the gym every day… But that could certainly pick up. He would go every hour. He would not be lazy. It was rubbing off on his citizens. He couldn't do this to himself. To his country. His unemployment rates would drop if it killed him.

_Fat_.

He would not be fat. This reflection had yet to change. His protruding stomach would erase itself in due time. He couldn't do this to his country. It was all his fault. _Everything_. The reason America had such high obesity rates. The reason kids were starving in other countries while he stuffed his face. He couldn't do this anymore.

And for the first time, the cheeseburger on his table looked disgusting.

They were right. All of them.

* * *

_December of 1928_

America walked through the door. Today was yet another meeting. He beamed his usual smile, hiding nothing. They would all be proud of him some day. They would all see how he'll change. They would see his heart before his skin—because it would show itself. All in due time.

The meeting was so boring—

_No_. It was not boring. He would not be lazy. He would pay attention. The first step in correcting himself. He _must_ pay attention.

The meeting dragged on and on and on longer than long. All the other countries seemed to have already lost interest.

How could he have missed this? Of _course_ he wasn't supposed to listen at the moment… All the stronger nations weren't. He wouldn't either.

America slouched down in his chair and tried to mimic England's posture. He was most dignified. Why couldn't he be like England? So thin, reserved, respected. Strong. A great country. Why couldn't he have been like England?

"America?" his thoughts were shattered when he heard his country being called.

He blinked up to find England had placed a hand on his shoulder. His grip was so strong unlike how his would probably be_. I can't touch anyone ever again…_ he thought_. I can't show weakness when I'm trying to get stronger…_

"Are you alright..?" the stronger nation asked cautiously when the silence grew too long for his liking.

Oh great, now he ignored people. Another thing to add to the list.

"Of course!" America shouted, noting how England grimaced at his volume.

-_Be quieter_- was mentally added to an invisible list with an empty box to the left.

After the answer was spouted, England walked away. Of course there was nothing wrong with America. Although he was acting a bit different. He didn't fall asleep during the meeting, he sat up straight for the most part—until he found America's eyes trained on everyone and locked on him, copying how he was sitting. Then, strangely enough, his grin that was once sculpted out of platinum dropped.

But at least his usual cheery voice was the same.

* * *

_December 25__th,__ 1928_

The sound (and smell) of vomiting held silence by its throat and threw it to the wind. America knelt by the toilet pitifully; the fringe of his hair fell over his eyes as he retched again. A tiny voice—_incredibly_ tiny—had tried to convince him not to eat the hamburger that night like he always had and this was the result.

It wasn't as if he were overeating! No, of course not! America tried ever so strongly to convince himself with the words, but the truth always prevailed.

Yes, every Christmas day, he always had a hamburger for dinner—it was tradition! Oh how he regretted to go along with it this year as well. The minute the first bite settled in his barren stomach, it ate at him until he forced himself to throw it up.

It tasted disgusting.

When did he start hating hamburgers? As long as he remembered, he's always loved them, so why, exactly, why did he feel so revolted when he took only a single bite. He felt so carnivorous. He _was_ so carnivorous. And that was just one flaw he needed to straighten out.

* * *

_June 11th, 1928_

182

_"How many cheeseburgers did you eat this morning?"_

176

_"Is your stomach _supposed_ to be a black hole?"_

160

_"Oh my gosh! You _almost_ look like you lost weight! Did you eat one-hundred cheeseburgers instead of two-hundred today?"_

142

_"I would invite you to lunch, but it looks like you already ate enough for both of us this morning."_

111

_"Hey, America, do you have any cheeseburgers stuffed in your pockets like always? I'm hungry and would eat _anything_ right now. Just make sure you have 911 on speed dial in case I die of diabetes."_

102

The number on the scale kept dropping lower each week.

* * *

_July 4th, 1928_

America hoped he'd have lost enough weight by his birthday to go out in skinny jeans again. He knew if he tried them on he'd only get more discouraged so he stuffed them in the back of the closet and left in some sweatpants and a hoody. Something that could hide his weight easily. He'd seen it on Mattie and he _really_ doesn't know how much the kid weighs, so why not try it out?

He was more reluctant about throwing a birthday party this year, but everyone asked him about it, so he decided to have one. Why did everyone even care so much about his birthday? Another year of a terrible country? Maybe they just liked to party.

So this year as well, he hired a huge catering team and party set-up people and they got the whole thing together in less than an hour. Really those people were amazing.

The guests started arriving at 6:00 on the dot. Apparently they _really_ loved to party if they showed up so eagerly. Of course there was the obligatory "Happy birthday!" he got, but he waved them off each time. They floated into one ear and came out the other as "Another year of running the worst country on planet Earth!"

He looked around the party after an hour to check out how everyone was doing. It was outdoors, so there was a lot of barbecue and a lot of people were swimming. America really didn't understand how people could eat like he used to and still look that great without a shirt. There must be something wrong with him. Something wrong with his country and it was his fault entirely.

Suddenly the food around him didn't look as appetizing as it once did. The smell alone was enough to make him fight the urge to throw up whatever was in his stomach. Was there anything in it? People around him tried to give him a hotdog, chicken wings, steaks, even his "favorite" hamburger ended in rejection from the birthday-nation.

And the next thing he remembered that night was sitting on the floor of his bathroom by the toilet. The smell really was sickening.

* * *

_Early August, 1929_

"America!" a frantic voice screamed out, ignoring the glares he got from the other people in the gym.

A worried shadow of the man approached the unconscious body on the ground. America was on the floor of the gym, a 20 pound dumbbell in his fist as he lay motionless on the thin carpet flooring. Many people had just turned the other way, a few looked a bit worried yet made no move. What kind of gym was this? This was in America, so wouldn't his citizens save him?

England shook the man's shoulder in an attempt to wake the sleeping boy. When he hadn't moved, his arms engulfed America and he carried him to his car. Opening the door with much difficulty, England managed to get America into the front seat. Was it just him, or was America a lot lighter than he looked in his baggy sweatpants and hoody? (Weren't those clothes reserved for the quieter nations like Canada anyways? What happened to his bright red shorts and blue tank top with the stars?)

With the occasional glance to the (geographically) larger nation, England hastily drove to the closest hospital.

_Ring… Ring… _

England picked up his cellphone confusedly and flipped it open. _Canada?_ He thought. _Who's… Oh right. It was America's brother. Why would he be calling now?_

"Canada?" England questioned instead of the traditional "Hello?"

"England, I think something's wrong with America," the quieter nation said worriedly.

"Why would you think that..?" England started to feel uneasy as he gave a side-glance to the man still unconscious in his passenger seat.

"The stock market in America just collapsed," the Canadian spoke a bit quicker with angst, "his people aren't doing too well. The food is getting more scarce and President Hoover isn't doing such a great job on his own. He just called me and said he hadn't seen America for a couple weeks and he needs help. I tried my best to help, but America should be there for his country…"

"I just found him collapsed in the gym," England spoke quietly, "He's been unconscious for half an hour now. Not to mention his change in wardrobe and he's so light it feels like he's a piece of paper!"

"W-Well take him to a hospital!" Canada exclaimed a bit over a whisper.

"What do you think I'm doing?" England grumbled back.

"Right… What hospital are you going to? I'll meet you there."

* * *

_Only but a few days subsequent_

America blinked his heavy eyelids open, finding himself in a strange room, hooked up to strange equipment, around strange people in strange white coats.

One of the strange people looked his way and his eyes widened for a minute before he rushed to the door and pressed a gloved finger to a black button.

"Alfred Jones is awake," he said simply and hurried out of the room.

America only had time to rub his eyes before the door burst open again, reveal a mob of countries. (Really, it was only England and Canada, but we both know that "mob" sounds _far_ more dramatic.)

"America, what on Earth were you thinking?" they cried in unison.

However, this was not a movie, so they didn't say the _exact same_ words at the _exact same_ time. Canada said something along the lines of "Are you okay, America?" while England yelled "America, you bloody idiot! You could have killed yourself!"

"I'm fine, you two," America muttered into the sheet that doubled as a blanket.

"You are not fine," England continued yelling, "I mean _anorexia_? What happened to you?"

"Anorexia? Oh come on, I've been trying a diet. I wouldn't say something _that_ extreme…" America rolled his eyes at his former caretaker's exaggeration.

"Al, the doctors here diagnosed you with anorexia," Canada managed to get a word in.

"Isn't anorexia when you look like a skeleton? Yeah, dude, I'm far from that." America's look of confusion only lingered longer as he continued to wave off the accusations with a shake of his head.

"Not from the pictures we were given…" Canada whispered and when unheard once again.

"America," England started seriously, "You had a six-pack a little over a year ago and now you look like those things you Americans hang outside your house on Halloween!"

"I did not and I do not!" America crossed his arms defensively.

"America, your country isn't doing too well, either. I think it's a result of all of this," Canada gestured to America's body.

America finally took their words to heart at this statement. His country is going downhill? Since when..?

_Since you left England_, a voice whispered in his ear.

"My country's never been good… What's with bringing it up now?" America's eyes were cold as he shook himself from their hardening gaze.

"What are you talking about? Your country is one of the world's strongest," England was genuinely confused with America.

_Your country is one of the world's strongest._

_Check._

At least "weak" is off the list.

America smiled at the words, yet didn't reply. It's almost as if he were alone in the room. His work was paying off. Soon. Soon he would have completed all his goals he so strongly yearned for. He wouldn't be a joke.

"America..?" England asked again, but the boy didn't snap out of his daze.

_I've already completed one… I can complete them all. I won't be fat or lazy and neither will my country! I'll make my citizens proud… They will sing America the Beautiful again. People will love America. People will want to live here again._

"America!" England grabbed his shoulder.

America glanced back into the green shadows of England's eyes with hysteria glinting in his own blue eyes. "Yes?" he said, but his eyes spoke volumes.

England looked a bit unsettled from the change in persona, yet continued with what he planned to say, and that was: "You need help. You're withering away. Soon even the skin clinging to your bones will disintegrate."

"I'm fine, England!" America shouted. "I'm finally doing well, why are you trying to stop me?!"

England and Canada were taken aback from the spoken words. Doing well at what? Slowly killing yourself? If this had been going on for a nearly a year, like the doctors estimated, imagine what any longer would do to the poor soul. The pair could only imagine his motivation for doing this. The pair could only imagine his drive.

"Why are you doing this..?" the words hesitantly spilled from the Canadian's lips.

America took a shaky breath before replying: "Why wouldn't I? Everyone's always saying I'm fat, lazy. Weak. Stupid. They say my citizens are, too. So I'm trying to get stronger for my citizens. For my people and my country. I don't care about how much it hurts me; I just want my country to get better. I don't care that my throat burns from throwing up… I don't care that my stomach feels nonexistent now… I don't care that my arms feel heavier and my legs feel weaker. I don't care if I get light-headed every time I change positions. I just want my people to be proud of my country… I don't want to be a joke."

The two countries were silent as they watched tears fall from America's eyes. Neither had seen the man cry before—sure when he was a colony, but once he was a nation, he let go of all the childish traits like crying. Or so they thought.

"A-Alfred," Canada started softly, "You were never really fat or lazy… or weak… I always knew they were just teasing you, but now I'm questioning myself: did you?"

America looked up to his brother with glistening eyes. Dull blue eyes that were once so radiant showed only severe sadness now. The answer was evident in them: he did not.

"The Great Depression," England's voice dissolved into a whisper.

"W-What?" America's eyes floated to England's.

"That's what the world is calling this. The Great Depression. Your country is going to collapse if you don't help Hoover* out and get better. Unemployment in your country is through the roof—so much that they're starting to put up signs that say not to look for jobs or find food in certain cities because _there are none."_

"I…" America found his words lodged in his throat. This entire endeavor was having the opposite effect on his country. He wasn't repairing it; he was destroying it.

"Al, you really need a reality check…" Canada turned his gaze to the side.

This… is all but a dream. That's all it can be. He couldn't have put his own children in such a position. I mean… the shame. The sheer _humility_ of it all. Putting up _signs_ that you are a failing city? And all blame was stabbing at him: the personification of the United States of America. He hadn't gotten that bad… He really hadn't. He was only dieting. That's all. He wasn't anorexic.

England set two pictures on the fazed nation's lap. They were of him. One was taken a while ago, and the other taken when he was admitted to the hospital. The one to the left was America and Gilbert at what looked like a drinking party. They both looked completely drunk and cheering with another glass of alcohol in their hands. America had his shirt off in the picture showing off his muscular built arms and six-pack stomach. America looked at the picture almost confusedly or in disbelief. Had he _really_ looked like that? This _had_ to be photoshopped.

His eyes drifted towards the next picture. It was him exactly as he was now. He was on the same hospital bed he was lying in now. His shirt was off as well to show the dramatic difference. His bones were protruding grotesquely. His ribs were peeking out, almost as if they were behind a curtain before a play. Tempted to open the curtain and look out to the crowd, but remembering their director telling them not to open the curtain until the show. His shoulders were visibly bony as well as his neck bones. He honestly did look like "those things you Americans hang outside your house on Halloween."

America had no comment on the pictures. What was there to say? The truth screamed through the silence. Though he never knew it'd gotten this bad, he knew he had to change. But did he honestly want to go back to being a joke to the others?

Which is worse? Being a joke as the USA or making his people—

That's just sick. He couldn't even _begin _to believe he would question helping his own people. He knew he had to. His goals had changed and his list had shredded.

America was going to get better.

* * *

_The month is lost. The year is 1941._

America was finally over his anorexia.

It took a whole twelve years, but his country and his people were finally living normally again. The Great Depression in America was finally over. He'd started trading with other nations again for World War II and he finally felt like an actual nation again. He felt like he was needed in the Allies.

England was always checking up on him to make sure he was eating right and getting enough sleep and yada yada yada… Honestly it was getting annoying. Did he not trust him?

America had scars from losing weight so quickly, but he'd learned to overlook them. He'd gained his beaming grin again and he'd been trying to use it to its full extent, but the truth is, he isn't completely cheerful. The other nations hadn't teased him on his weight or anything else again; maybe the word got around. It wasn't like it was really their fault though.

After all, lies are not impossible without the truth.

He had to have been a little overweight for them to say so. Some part of him must have been weak. A crack in his skin must have been lazy. A hair on his head must have been stupid.

America still had trouble looking in the mirror—in fact, if you saw his home before and after, there were significantly less mirrors found, fewer pictures of him and more of England, France, Gilbert and his brother.

For it is impossible to fully and completely recover from something—same goes for forgetting memories. They are burned into you. You can put water on the burn and bandage it twice, but if you remove the gauze, you will see a sickly red color.

But for the sake of his people, he promised he would never go back to that dark place. Even if he had to force the food down his throat and break every mirror.

* * *

**_Thank you all for taking the time to read this ^.^ Call me sick but I really love anorexic!America, but there's so few fics on it so I had to write my own~ This was based on the American Great Depression. I love history and may have gotten something wrong historically, so if you catch anything, let me know! I hope you liked it!_**

**_*The president at the time of the Great Depression was Hoover. (Though after him, Roosevelt took over and ended up dying in office.)_**


End file.
